The Blood Code (26 page)

The Russian president flipped her the bird.

Anya stilled. Narrowed her eyes.

“Aim for his stomach,” Ryan advised. “Bigger target. Plus the bio-scanner reads for a pulse along with the fingerprint. Kill him and it won’t work.”

Without so much as blinking, she did as he instructed. She pulled the trigger.

The president’s body jerked, and he stumbled backward several feet before toppling to the floor. Blood oozed from his stomach and he cried out, clutching at the wound and rolling over. He came up on his hands and knees, but went down again when Devons kicked him. Quick grabbed one arm and Devons grabbed the other. Together, they pulled Ivanov across the floor to the scanner.

Muscling him around wasn’t easy. He fought them until Ryan knocked him in the head with the butt of his gun. Anya raised his arm, and Quick and Devons shoved on his body until they managed to get his hand on the scanner to read his fingerprints.

The scanner hummed to life, read what it needed. Asked for a retinal scan.

They all exchanged a frustrated glance. Quick grabbed Ivanov by his short hair, Devons helped Ryan haul the man’s face up to the scanner. A red line moved from top to bottom.

“Did it work?” Quick yelled over the alarms.

Ryan let Ivanov’s body slump to the ground, the last of his own strength giving out. He stumbled to the chair, missed grabbing the back of it, and went down.

But not before he saw the screen.

Launch aborted.

The female voice stopped in mid-count. The alarm died away.

“Ryan!” Anya was by his side in an instant, her cool hands on his face. He smiled up at her as black shadows encroached on the edges of his vision.

She returned his smile, even though her brows scrunched together in concern. “Did you learn that at the CIA? How to stop a nuclear missile launch?”

“YouTube.”

Her brows smoothed out and she laughed.

The shadows grew bigger. The numbness in his chest began to spread. “Don’t talk about what happened here to anyone but Conrad Flynn, okay? Nobody but him.”

She brushed some hair from his forehead. “Conrad Flynn?”

“Solomon. Don’t talk to anyone else, but tell him everything.”

“Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll get you to a doctor. I’ll fix this…” She glanced around at Devons and Quick, and did one of those deep intakes of breath. “I’ll fix everything.”

Before he could tell her he loved her, she kissed his lips.

Soft, warm, and the sweetest lips he’d ever kissed, he closed his eyes.

Anya was okay.

Chapter Forty-Three

Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.

Anya watched Ryan’s chest rise and fall. He was breathing. Shallow, but steady.

Always steady
. Even unconscious, he was a rock of steadfast reassurance.

“Okay, Ryan Jones, or whatever your real name is, I’ll make you a deal. You keep breathing, and I’ll get us out of here.”

She nodded at him as if he’d answered her. He was breathing, but he looked like hell. He was too pale for her liking, and his skin was cold.

The men who’d come back with Ryan tried to move her out of the way. She refused to let go of him.

The one that looked like a football player patted her shoulder and winked. She remembered him from the cabin in the woods. “Nice job. You did good. Great, actually. No wonder Smitty went off the reservation for you.”

Smitty? Another name to add to her list. “Can you help him?”

“I can.” The other man detached her hand from Ryan’s with a gentle touch. “My name’s John Quick. I’ve had emergency medical training. We need to stop his bleeding and find something to cover him with to conserve his body heat. Think you can find a blanket?”

Anya stood and looked around. Her hand was still bleeding profusely, and she needed to rewrap it. She walked over and snatched up the Russian flag lying on the ground, ripped it from the pole. It was too silky and satiny to absorb blood, but it would work as a blanket. She pushed Quick out of the way so she could drape it over Ryan.

He and the football player exchanged a glance that said she was losing it, but she didn’t care. She bent down and tucked the flag around Ryan’s lifeless body. “Now what?”

Mr. Football drew her aside. “You’re going into shock. We need to look after your hand and warm you up, too.”

Shock. She’d been in shock mentally since this all began. Grabbing the other flag, she jerked it off the pole, and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Just worry about Ryan, okay?”

Quick used a chair to elevate Ryan’s feet. “Find something new to bandage your hand and stop the bleeding.”

Anya’s hat lay on the floor where it had fallen earlier. She took Ivanov’s dirk from his belt, cut off the earflaps and chin straps. Then she went to work fashioning a padded tourniquet around her hand. A low buzzing set up shop in her ears, either a phantom echo from the alarm or she was going to faint.

I will not pass out.

One wooly earflap went on her palm, the other on top of her hand. She snapped the ends of the chin straps together, wrapped them around the whole concoction, and tied the ends using her teeth and right hand.

Natasha lay nearby. Anya scooted to her side, kissed her cheek, and smoothed back her hair. Took the flag from around her shoulders, and draped it over Grams’s body as she silently said a prayer for her grandmother’s soul.

A set of phones hung on the back wall. Anya had no idea who to call or even how to dial out. Ivanov lay on the floor unmoving. He was breathing, but losing a lot of blood from his stomach wound. He could bleed out for all she cared, but the fastest way to get Ryan to a hospital was to use Ivanov. Fighting a wave of dizziness, she made it to the bank of phones, picked up the first receiver and considered the keypad.

A male voice started speaking in her ear before she could figure what to dial. Fast, clipped Russian. Obviously, the man on the other end was topside in the Kremlin and could get her what she needed. “President Ivanov has been shot. He needs immediate emergency care. You’ll find him in the new presidential bunker command center under the Palace.”

There was a slight pause on the other end, then she heard the man speaking to someone else before he came back on the phone with her. He continued to speak in rapid Russian sentences, so she spoke over him with a simple command. “Just hurry or he’ll be dead before you get here.”

As she hung up the phone, her body shook with exhaustion. Her eyelids drooped, too heavy to hold up. Her feet felt like hundred pound weights as she dragged herself back over to Ryan. She sat on the floor next to him and watched his chest rise and fall as Quick and the football player added another bandage over his chest wound. The steady rhythm of Ryan’s breathing comforted her, and her eyelids threatened to close.

Still shaking, she lay as close to Ryan as she could get. It wasn’t close enough, but she could reach out and touch his hair. The thought of sleep was tempting, but she forced herself to stay awake. If she fell asleep, he might die on her.

“Even after all of this, we don’t know each other very well,” she told him, ignoring the looks the other two men gave her. “So how about I tell you a few facts you might want to know? Like, I never had a dog growing up, and I really wanted one. You know, nothing fancy, no pure breed. Just a mutt from the shelter. A good dog with a scruffy face and silly ears. Did you ever have a dog growing up?”

Of course, he didn’t reply, but Anya kept talking anyway. “So somehow you figured out that
A Thousand and One Nights
is my favorite book, but do you know why? It was my mother’s favorite. I stole her copy when I was ten and read it straight through. Some of it, I didn’t understand, but there were many great stories I did understand. Tragedies, comedies, romances.”

Anya slid around so her head was next to Ryan’s. “Help’s on the way, but while we wait, how about I tell you one of those stories? Aladdin? Ali Baba? I bet you’re a Sinbad fan.”

She hadn’t gotten far in the story before a group of men and women flooded the command center. Soldiers, security guards, Ivanov’s personal emergency response team, and a handful of cabinet members. As they rushed in, saw the president and other bodies scattered over the floor, they yelled questions at her. The security guards shoved Ryan’s friends to the ground.

The guards immediately began to place all of them under arrest. A man who’d introduced himself as Deputy Prime Minister Yuri Barchai during the ceremonies stopped them. In Russian, he told the cabinet members he’d suspected Ivanov and Andreev had hatched a plan to start a nuclear war and blame it on the Americans. He said more stuff, too, but Anya found it hard to focus on anything, until she heard him say the grand duchess was innocent. That it was their job now to protect her.

The other cabinet members blustered and shouted, accusing Barchai of treason, and her of suspected treason as well. Barchai kept talking, continuing to smooth things over, and she ran interference as best she could. Each time someone asked her what had happened, she diverted their attention to Ryan. “Please, he needs to go to a hospital.”

One of the medical team examined Anya’s host of injuries while the others started IVs on Ryan and Ivanov, and put them on gurneys in order to transport them upstairs. Ivanov was wheeled out first, a host of guards surrounding him. Next to go was Ryan. Anya shoved a penlight out of her face, ignoring the EMTs sound of distress, and shrugged off the blanket the woman had thrown over her shoulders. “I have to go with him.”

Several of the cabinet members exchanged glances. Barchai gave a nod, and said he would personally accompany her. The EMT protested, saying Anya was in shock and needed to have an IV, and be gurnied upstairs like Ivanov and Ryan. Quick spoke up his agreement, and Anya glared at him.

“I’m going with Ryan.”

Barchai took her elbow and helped her up. No further words were spoken, two soldiers falling into step behind them as they exited the command center. The Russian EMT grabbed her equipment and followed. So did both of Ryan’s friends.

Barchai was a nervous man, but kind. He offered his sympathies for her grandmother. Asked if she would like him to accompany her to the hospital. Several times as they walked, Anya grew dizzy and had to stop. “I believe you do need medical attention,” he said as he steadied her.

She wanted to trust him. Wanted to believe someone could be nice to her without wanting something in return.

But she didn’t.

“I have to make sure Ryan gets to the hospital. That he’s okay.”

If Barchai was surprised that she didn’t express concern for his president, he hid it well. “I give you my word as a Russian, I will make sure he receives the best care in Moscow.”

The word of a Russian didn’t mean much to her at the moment.

They were in the tunnel headed up. The ever-increasing slope pushed her already weak legs to the breaking point. “If anything happens to him…” Anya stopped and leaned against the tunnel’s wall. Her heart pounded, and she felt light-headed. “I will hold you personally responsible.”

He gave Anya a troubled look. The EMT stepped forward, ignoring the drama. “You are in shock,” she said in English. “If you do not allow me to treat you, you will not be around to hold him responsible.”

John Quick nodded his head in agreement.

Anya couldn’t fight it any longer. She sank down to the tunnel floor, damning her blood disorder, Ivanov, and anyone else she could think to damn. The EMT worked efficiently, though, and had an IV in her arm in under a minute. She gave her a shot of something and bandaged the wound in her hand. Since there was no gurney, Ryan’s friends each took one of her arms, and along with Barchai, walked her through the last leg of the journey to the Kremlin.

Dozens of people waited for them topside, all of whom swarmed her with questions and demands. Thad Pennington was among the crowd, and by the look on his face, she guessed she looked quite frightening.

“What happened down there, grand duchess?” he said as she approached. Ryan’s friends stayed at her sides like bodyguards.

Barchai spoke up, addressing everyone in the room. “The princess has been through a tragic ordeal. I’m sure she will be happy to answer your questions once she’s received medical care and is feeling better.”

Before Ryan’s friends could drag her out of the throng, Anya grabbed Pennington by the arm. “Per Ryan’s instructions, I’ll only talk to Conrad Flynn. Can you get him for me?”

Pennington looked down at her bloody, bandaged hand on his sleeve, and then raised his gaze to her face.

Mr. Football leaned in and spoke in her ear. “He’s already on his way. He’ll be here before the night’s over.”

Anya released the president’s arm. “He’ll help Ryan, right?”

“And you,” Quick said. “I’m sorry we failed to get your grandmother out alive.”

“Not your fault.” She patted his arm. “I couldn’t save her either.”

As she was strapped onto a gurney and secured in the ambulance, Anya closed her eyes. Solomon better damn well come through this time, or she was going to wipe the deck with his ass.

Chapter Forty-Four

Conrad jumped through all the bureaucratic bullshit necessary to get in to see Anya Romanov Radzoya. Smitty was out of surgery by the time he arrived in Moscow, but was heavily sedated. While the bullet had gone straight through, it had damaged tendons and muscles in Ryan’s chest and back, nicking his collarbone before exiting. Conrad wasn’t sure how his friend had gone from a simple asset recruitment to being underground in GI 42 and taking out the president of Russia, but he was sure it was one helluva good story.

And while he preferred to hear it from Smitty, he had no choice but to get Anya’s side first.

She was a stubborn one. Sources reported she’d been interviewed, threatened, and put under arrest in the hospital, all in the past seven hours since she’d emerged from the bunker with Devons and Quick. Even with all that, she’d refused to say a word to anyone but him.

As Yuri Barchai, the asset Smitty was supposed to turn, escorted Conrad to the door of her hospital room, he stopped Conrad out of hearing range of the two guards posted outside her door and fiddled with his tie. “I believe Grand Duchess Anya was treated less than…”

He shook his head, stuck his hands in his pants pockets. “President Ivanov is still in surgery. We are not sure who shot him, but as you can imagine, the situation is a political nightmare. If it was the grand duchess, she will face serious consequences, as will your operatives. I suggest that no matter what she tells you, you consider all the possible complications her confession might cause and use wise judgment in making any accusations. I do not—I mean,
we
, the cabinet members—do not wish to cause the grand duchess further difficulties, but it may be inevitable.”

Threat or warning? Conrad had already received a similar speech from his bosses, Titus Allen and Michael Stone, as well as Thad Pennington. Interestingly, this man seemed to genuinely care about the Romanov woman. She and her grandmother had apparently made quite an impression on a lot of people.

Even Smitty, if his friend had drawn her into his mission as more than just an asset.

Now it was time for him to see what all the fuss was about. Giving Barchai a tight nod, he made his way past the guards, who Barchai commanded to let him in, and knocked on the closed wooden door of Anya’s hospital room.

After a short pause, she called, “Come in.”

He entered and found her not in bed, but sitting by the window fully dressed. Her bottom lip was swollen and he could see where it had been split. One eye was also swollen and sported a black bruise that looked particularly dark against her pale skin. Her hair was as white as the snow falling outside the window, and her arm was in a sling, the hand bandaged so thoroughly, he could barely see her fingers.

Light blue eyes met his, assessing him as much as he assessed her. “Anya Romanov Radzoya?”

She rose from the chair, wiped her good hand on the leg of her jeans, and held it out. “Solomon?”

He crossed the few feet to take her outstretched hand. “Any friend of Smitty’s is welcome to call me Conrad.”

Her handshake was brief but firm. Emotion flashed in her eyes. “He’s a great man. He stopped a nuclear war last night.”

Good story? Hell, this was going to be a goddamn
great
story.

Conrad motioned for her to return to her chair. “I’d like to hear the details.”

She stayed standing. “My grandmother always wanted to be buried here in Moscow, next to her son, Peter. I believe the US government owes her that much, don’t you? To take care of the paperwork and red tape necessary to make that happen?”

She wanted to bargain. Smart gal. And not for her own release, but for her grandmother’s burial. “Consider it done.”

“And you’ll give me your word that Ryan will not be held responsible for anything that happened in that bunker, other than stopping dozens of ICBMs from launching?”

Loyal to a fault. Another admirable trait. “Of course.”

She drew a deep breath and bit her bottom lip, wincing as she hit the cut. Moving to the bed, she continued to stare Conrad straight in the eyes. She sat and cradled her injured hand. “Maxim Ivanov is a monster.”

Tell me something I don’t know.
“What did he do to you and Ryan?”

“It’s a long, complicated story. Most people will find it hard, if not impossible, to believe.”

Conrad unbuttoned his suit coat, sat down in the chair she had vacated, and brought out a pocket voice recorder. He held it up and showed it to her. “For the record.”

“No. What I tell you is between us. Once Ryan is awake, you can record his account if he agrees to it.”

Tough negotiator. He slid the recorder back inside his coat, slouched in the chair, and crossed his legs at the ankles, trying to channel Ryan’s friendly persona. “All right, but I want to hear everything, every detail. The only way I can help you out of this mess is if I have the full, unadulterated story.
Capice
?”

She didn’t hesitate. “You can’t get me out of this mess.”

“Why not?”

“Because I shot the president of Russia, and if given the chance, I’d do it all over again.”